Feel the Word
by AnnieXMuller
Summary: Beckett. Bathtub. Candles and wine. Pre-Always.


**AN: This has been collecting dust in a cobwebbed little section of my harddrive since Feb. I'm fairly sure I haven't published this here before, or slipped it into a longer fic and forgotten. I have a habit of taking bits and pieces from fic fragments and slipping them into finished fics without deleting the original. So let me know if it seems familiar, and if not then just enjoy the ride.  
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Bath tub, wine glass, and candles. Hot water, cool air, and warming skin.

The book now closed on the small table beside her, Beckett retreats into the sanctity of the bubbles, descends to her shoulders, and sighs. She lets her legs fall as wide as the tub will allow, brings her knees up, and presses the soles of her feet into the corners of the tub.

This is her secret, how she unwinds and finds solace after a long day, a difficult case. This is how she keeps her need for him hidden away for another day.

Her eyes slip closed, and her fingers dance over her skin. In her mind, they are Castle's skilled fingers, touching her, teasing her, loving her.

Lightly brushing over her breasts, her thumb and forefinger caress her nipples until they peak, aroused and hard. One hand palms her breast, the other drifts further south, dips under the waterline, and finds her patch of soft curls, trimmed and neat, and barely there, at the junction of her legs. Two fingers exploring, playfully, between her folds, around her clit, make her shudder and writhe. Then down, ever lower, to tease her opening, the thick slickness of her arousal still present, the water unable to wash her need away. She touches every part of herself. Educates herself, commits each sweep of her fingers to memory, so that maybe in the near future she can pass that knowledge onto him. Show him what she likes.

In the water, hidden beneath the surface, every inch of her wet, her fingers feel different. They're not hers anymore. She imagines his tongue, lavishing her with unwavering determination, worshiping her with the attention she's been craving. In her mind, in the darkened world created behind closed eyes, her hands fall to the back of his head, her fingers splayed through his hair. She presses his mouth harder against her, and shudders as his mouth works harder, his tongue never ceasing. His two long thick fingers find their way inside her, pressing deep within, and stroking her. They travel through her, know exactly where they need to be. They curl up, he finds that soft, elusive spot, and his fingers begin to vibrate as they stroke her. A third finger soon follows, stretching her wider, pressing so sinfully deep.

The friction warms her; it stokes a fire that has started burning low in her belly, a fire that shifts and courses out through her veins like hot lead, until her skin is radiating heat like nothing she's ever experienced. Her feet press into the enamel of the tub, keeping her legs from slipping back under the water, and her thighs burn from the effort. And it's so, so good.

His name leaves her lips, little more than a whimper but with familiar syllables. She rocks her hips as her fingers pump furiously. She's so close, but she's not yet ready for release. She wants to think of him just a little longer, in the privacy of her bathroom, where he'll never know he's the only man who can get her off. The only face she pictures, the only one she wants.

She loses herself in the images in her mind, in the place where he's with her and she isn't alone.

Where they are his fingers, sliding in and out of her, vibrating and applying pressure. Where the scent of them mingles, surrounds them, and when she reaches out it's his skin that she touches, explores, remembers.  
Where it's his tongue on her clit, swirling, alternating between firm and soft, desperate and gentle, rough and smooth. But always, always, wet.

She licks her lips, tastes a warm droplet of water splashed up from the tub. She would give anything to kiss his lips, taste him, nip and suck and claim him.

She can't stay in control any longer. Her hips buck against her hand one last time as her fingers rub a satisfying pattern around and over her clit. She gives in, and let's go.

Coming hard around her fingers, her muscles contract, her body shudders, but her eyes remain closed through it all. Her legs slide from the sides to slip back under the tepid water, and she lays her head back against the hard enamel tub, three fingers still inside her, riding out the waves, another on her clit, resting now.

Page 105 undoes her every time.


End file.
